


Let's Call It Whimsy

by ephemeraltea (temporarily_obsessed)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Angst, Drinking, Gen, drunken delusions (?), the way to redundantthinking's heart is through a united batfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:17:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1194807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporarily_obsessed/pseuds/ephemeraltea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But, anyway, there are matters that his drunken mind can’t deal with well- and considering how he deals with them when clear-headed. Well. It says something. Poignantly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Call It Whimsy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Star_Nymph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_Nymph/gifts).



> For her birthday. It was supposed to be happier but writing it produced something else.

Jason tries not to dwell on certain things when he’s drunk. Things he can, and does, think about almost constantly when sober- or as sober as the Lazarus Pit could leave him.

 _Does crazy count as intoxicated?_ Jason muses idly, rolling the bottle slowly between his hands. Alfred would probably know

Ah. Alfred. A person and topic he actively works to never think about, blood alcohol content irrelevant. _Concussion_ irrelevant, even. As much as so many things burn and twist that he settles on, things like Bruce and parents and not-family and being just another boy in the assembly line… somehow the butler is one of the things that always makes him feel this swell of guilt and shame that is just better off avoided, for the sake of his knuckles and furniture. And Gotham, probably.

But, anyway, there are matters that his drunken mind can’t deal with well- and considering how he deals with them when clear-headed. Well. It says something. Poignantly.

The former hero (and Jason certainly never debates the reality of the first part of that statement with himself) has lost count of how many drinks the past three hours have allowed him to consume, but then, he wasn’t trying to keep track. He’s not _plastered_ yet, though he’s certainly over halfway there- but Jason falls solidly into drunk. Drunk and melancholy.

Jason doesn’t delude himself into thinking his death, subsequent and inexplicable resurrection, and drop in the magic acid has had no effect on him. That would be bullshitting beyond even his skills, perhaps even past Dick’s. (And oh, there’s one of those things he needs to not think about.) One thing they didn’t change, though, was how alcohol affected him. From the handful of times _before_ he had to compare to, drinking had always made him just this side of sad and hurt and resigned. Made a man wonder why he’d keep coming back to it. Maybe that was why Jason only drank this much a few times a year. (When the guilt was overwhelming. Only then.)

So Jason opens the bottle vodka from last year and tips it back enough for a cutting sip that ribbons down his esophagus.

The forbidden topics are as follows, for the most part: the ways in which Bruce was a good father. The never-talked about items on his record that he knew Bruce had seen. Alfred. (Always.) The ski trip. And how much he wished he could be Dick’s brother.

He always gets to this point, too, Jason realizes as he goes in for more cheap, lemon-flavored vodka. The point where he can’t help but think about them anyway. The point where he cries.

Tonight he leans back against the wall, his feet dangling off the fire escape outside his apartment, and when he sees a flash of a blue ‘V’ over a black chest- well, he pretends it’s Dick coming to visit Li’l Wing. Jason closes his eyes. Lets the hot damp of his eyes dribble onto his face.

“Jay?”

He doesn’t open his eyes. It’s been a while since he was far gone enough to hallucinate, and he didn’t think he’d drunk that far yet- but if he opened his eyes, as was par for the course, he’d be unable to convince himself the auditory delusion was real. (Real picture of mental health, the Red Hood.)

The tentative touch to his shoulder is new, as was the shudder of the metal under his ass, as if someone had really landed on the platform- which, let’s be real, Dick was better trained than to give a hint like that- but Jason would worry about the progression of his unraveling later. Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day.

Jason keeps his eyes closed.

* * *

The next morning finds him in his bed, the blankets tangled as usual, and it doesn’t make sense- because if Jason was far gone enough to hallucinate, he wouldn’t have been able to stand, get into the apartment and to bed.

But he ignores that, just like he ignores how the vodka bottle is empty, rinsed out, and in the recycling bin.

(He’ll think about it the next time he gets drunk.) 

**Author's Note:**

> So you can decide if it was Dick you showed up, or if it was someone else. Maybe it was Tim. Maybe it was someone unnamed. You pick.


End file.
